Curveball
by TeaNSympathy
Summary: Jill's sister is back and she's in trouble. It isn't Roger's problem, but he can't seem to stay away. AU, begins right after S07 EP 01


Roger checks his watch again.

Thirty minutes. She is thirty minutes late.

He scans the crowded subway platform for her familiar blonde head. He sees several women with long blonde hair, but a cursory examination confirms that they are not Jill.

It happens every so often that one of them will get hung up at work and the late one will meet the other at Yankee Stadium instead of on the platform, but they always text if there's a change in the plan. He checks his phone. Nothing. His previous text (At Chambers Street. E.T.A?) has gone unanswered. He deliberates before sending another one, not wanting to seem desperate, but then types "Are you on the way? Should I head uptown?" and hits send.

He never used to give their communications such intense scrutiny. It used to be so easy. They met, they talked baseball. They met, they worked. They argued, they resolved. It was simple, it was familiar, they both knew the steps. Something had gone out of balance since the season tickets and the ensuing contracts. The ground had shifted, and he was no longer sure where they stood.

He'd realized something odd, that day. He'd realized that the Yankees were not the Yankees without Jill. More than that, he'd realized that he wanted Jill for more than baseball. He wanted to have drinks with her after work and perhaps spend a Saturday morning with her, he wanted to have coffee with her in the morning and he wanted to tell her things, things that fell outside the confines of their usual conversations. Things like how the café-set French film he'd seen last week had made him look at the barista in his favorite coffee shop with a new appreciation for their work, or the funny story Maggie had told him about how her history teacher had walked into second period with toilet paper on his shoe and nobody had mentioned it all day.

He had also started to notice things that he'd never noticed before. Things like the vanilla spice scent of whatever lotion or perfume it was she wore, the grace of her wrists when she was gesturing to make a point and the sparkle in her eyes when she successfully made it. He was noticing her clothing, the way she always wore stripes on Red Sox days and her tendency toward figure-hugging jeans on Fridays. When he realized that he was mentally ranking her blouses in order of preference, he knew there was an issue that had to be addressed. But how? Their relationship was such a delicate balance as it was. Personal and professional, prosecution and defense, it rested precariously on their maintaining certain rules. He wasn't at all certain it could withstand a tilt toward the personal. He wasn't at all certain that she'd ever considered him as anything beyond a baseball companion and colleague. And yet. He still wanted.

The train to uptown roars into the station, people board, it roars out again. He checks his watch. First pitch is in fifteen minutes. He supposes the thing to do is to head to Yankee Stadium without her, but it doesn't feel right. With a sigh, he heads to her office, just to check.

Her door is closed and locked when he gets there and most of the public defenders have gone, but he sees a light on in one of the offices and heads toward it. Sandra Bell is busily working away, earbuds in, surrounded by piles of books and papers and empty coffee cups. He has to rap on her doorframe three times before she notices him and looks up, eyes narrowing with distaste as she realizes who it is and removes her earbuds.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she asks brusquely.

"I was looking for Jill. Has she left for the day?."

Sandra nods impatiently.

"Yes, hours ago. She left early, actually. She got a phone call and ran out. Some kind of emergency. She didn't say much. I'd try her cell. "

She puts her earbuds back in, clearly done with the conversation.

"Thank you" he says, although she doesn't show any sign of hearing. He is heading toward the exit to the stairs when he notices something small and white on the floor and picks it up. It is a notebook. He recognizes the loopy handwriting. Jill's notebook. She is never without that notebook. He supposes he should really go back and give it to Sandra, but instead he slips it into his pocket, wanting to be the one to return it. What could have made her leave in such haste that she wouldn't have noticed?

He walks out into the deepening twilight, checking his watch again. First pitch was fifteen minutes ago. He should just head to the stadium himself, but there are alarm bells clanging in his head. This isn't like Jill. He checks his phone again. No text. No missed calls. What if something is wrong?

He knows where she lives. He'd dropped off the tickets at her tiny Upper East Side studio once when he'd unexpectedly had to cancel due to Delap's insistence that he appear at a late evening press conference. After a brief debate with himself, he boards the subway that will take him there. He'll just make sure she's all right, then he'll head to the stadium. It's not weird at all, just appropriate concern.

Her apartment has a buzzer in the lobby. He presses the button for her apartment and feels a wave of relief sweep over him when he hears her voice through the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"Jill? It's Roger. Is everything OK?"

She gasps.

"Oh! The game! I'm sorry. Something came up and I completely forgot. Sorry, you go on and tell me about it tomorrow. Good night."

"Wait!" he blurts before she can hang up. "I – have your notebook. Can I come up for a minute?"

He knows he is pushing, but he has to make sure she is not ill, or being held hostage, or any number of other horrible possibilities he can imagine. Even if it is inappropriate.

She sighs.

"Oh thank God. I didn't even realize I lost it. Ok. Just for a moment. Number 37."

She buzzes him in. Bypassing the elevator, he takes the dingy stairs to the third floor and knocks on the door of 37. The door opens just a sliver and she peers out. He can see the stress on her face, but she forces a half-smile.

"So sorry for not getting in touch. Unexpected emergency. Thanks for checking. And for the notebook."

She holds out her hand for the notebook and he gives it to her.

"You better get going. I think you can still make it for most of the game."

"Hope everything is all right- " he starts to say, when suddenly there is an ear-piercing shriek behinds Jill.

"Is it him?"

A face appears next to Jill in the doorway and the door is pulled open to reveal a woman roughly Jill's age. She holds a pan in one hand and appears ready to bring it down on Roger's skull at any moment.

"Get out!" the woman shrieks.

"Josie! Put the pan down, honey. Everything is ok."

Jill gently takes the pan from the woman, who continues to glare fearfully at Roger. Her blue eyes are huge and terrified in her painfully thin face and her tangled blonde hair forms a frizzed halo around her head.

"He'll kill us" she whispers feverishly to Jill. "Just like the other one."

Jill sighs and wraps her arms tightly around her, pulling her into a close hug. The woman calms down a bit and leans her head on Jill's shoulder.

"So tired" she whimpers.

"I know, sweetie. But it's going to be fine. This is Roger. He's a friend. "

Stroking the woman's hair, she turns to Roger. He notes the worry in her eyes on her face and the quivering of her lips, but when she speaks it is with resolve in her voice.

"Roger, this is Josie. My sister."


End file.
